Skip to main content

"Fiddler on the Roof" at Paper Mill

 "Fiddler on the Roof" isn't aging well. The book is dusty; too many laughs feel dutiful rather than earned. Yente will steal your apples! Motel has a new "birth," but it's a sewing machine, not a human! Sometimes I just don't know, am I talking about a dowry or the sale of a milk cow?


In truth, "Fiddler" was not universally dazzling even in its first run. Famously, Philip Roth called it "shtetl kitsch," and Cynthia Ozick said it was an "emptied out, prettified romantic vulgarization" of Sholom Aleichem's work.

One problem is with the character of Tevye. Too often, he is seen reacting; he doesn't have a strong wish, and so he bounces from one child to the other, until the curtain call. (His wish for money is presented as a joke; we aren't meant to take this very seriously.) The Tevye in the show's final number could easily be the Tevye in the show's opening number; he greets news of his eviction with an unfunny quip ("This is why I always wear my hat!") -- and the curtain falls. (The song "Anatevka" is especially distasteful to me, and on Friday, one member of the audience began loudly singing along. I suspect this is because she was no longer absorbed in the events that were happening on the stage.)

It seems to me that Bock and Harnick strike gold with Hodel, who maybe deserves to be the protagonist. Hodel risks everything--abandoning home for a prison camp, in Siberia--in the name of love. Wisely, the writers allow Hodel to articulate what she is thinking:

Oh, what a melancholy choice this is--
Wanting home, wanting him....
Closing my heart to every hope but his--
Leaving the home I love.
There where my heart has settled long ago--
I must go.
I must go.
Who could imagine I'd be wandering so
Far from the home I love?

In my view, the show is never more intelligent than it is in Hodel's three minutes of prominence. I have to tell it as I see it.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...